The Eel extended his arm with the twenty. Music pounded louder. Story reached a hand behind her back.
. . Devil in a blue dress, blue dress …”
Serge cupped his hands around his mouth: “jellyfish!”
The Eel barely heard it above the music, but heard it nonetheless. He tilted his head and peeked around Story’s left leg for the source of the insult.
The split second of distraction was all she needed to grab the straight razor from her panties, flip it open and swing with a firm crossing motion.
The bodyguards scrutinized a rambunctious new group of customers. Conventioneers. Dismissed as minimal threat. One of the goons felt dampness on his arm. “What the hell-“
A second guard got hit with jugular spurts. He wiped his cheek and turned. The Eel slumped facedown on the edge of the catwalk, gurgling. The gang looked up, where a man in a wig had jumped onto the stage, taken Story by the hand and was racing her back through the curtains.
“Get them!”
Instantly, the catwalk was a traffic jam of bodyguards and state agents, all fighting for position to get through the curtains.
The back door of the club flew open and slammed against the concrete wall. “This way!” said Serge, pulling Story around the side of the building.
Seconds later, the others poured out, making a hard right and racing toward the alley with the stashed Javelin. They found an agent and a bodyguard casually leaning against the car.
“Shit!”
On the other side of the building, Serge and Story piled into a second car, where Coleman had been waiting with the engine running. Mahoney stood on the corner and did nothing as they sped off.
NEXT DAY
The Crown Vic turned down a side street off Ocean Drive for a rare chance to escape South Beach glitz. Mahoney parked in an alley and headed for the entrance of Ted’s Hideaway.
It was noon. Empty.
“Babs, the regular.”
“You got it.” A veteran female bartender grabbed a bottle of Boodle’s. She looked up from her mixing. “Still interested in the guy asking around about that Serge character?”
Mahoney pulled over a glass ashtray for his spent toothpick. “Thanks for the help, Babs, but all the loose ends got tied up yesterday. I’m officially on vacation.”
“Good to hear.” She set a drink in front of him. “So another agent’s assigned to the case?”
“No, why would you think that?”
“You said ‘yesterday.’”
“Yeah?”
“Because the guy was back in here asking about Serge this morning.”
“You must be mistaken.”
“No, I’m positive. He just left a few minutes before you got here.” The bartender began wiping a glass. “Seemed like it was really urgent. Split in a big hurry.”
Mahoney jumped up and pulled a mug shot from his jacket. “Recognize him?”
“Yeah.” The bartender tossed a towel over her shoulder and looked closer. “Definitely.”
“Thought you said you’d never seen Serge.”
“I haven’t.” The bartender turned to grab another glass. “Who’s that guy?”
When she looked back, a ten-spot lay on the bar in front an empty seat.
Mahoney dove in the Crown Vic. “Dear God, I hope I’m not too late!”
He grabbed his briefcase off the passenger seat and rapidly thumbed manila folders. The tabs had names of recent victims. He stopped at a late coin dealer named Steve. On a hunch, he flipped through pages of personal data until his finger found the number of a cell that was reported missing from the deceased’s motel room.
Mahoney flipped open his own phone and dialed.
“Hello?”
“Who’s this?” asked the agent. “Coleman.”
Mahoney heard potato chips crunching. “Coleman, where’s Serge?”
“Taking pictures.” Crunch, crunch, crunch …
“No, I mean where physically? What’s the address?”
Crunch. “I’m not supposed to tell you that.”
“Coleman! It’s important!”
“Serge was very clear. He said, ‘Coleman, if Mahoney calls, don’t let him trick you into telling him where I am. He’ll probably even say it’s an emergency.’”
“It’s an emergency!”
“Okay.” Crunch, crunch. “Hotel Franklin. It’s just past-“
“I know the address.” Mahoney tossed his phone aside and screeched out of the alley. Less than a minute later, he skidded into a fire lane on the 800 block of Collins, jumped out and ran through a stucco Mediterranean arch.
The agent spun around in the lobby and spotted Coleman at the bar.
“Coleman, where’s Serge?”
“Back in the room changing camera batteries.”
“What room?”
“He might get mad at me.”
“The room!”
“Five.”
Mahoney thrust out an arm. “Key!” Coleman reached in his pocket.
Mahoney snatched it and galloped down a historic wooden hallway. He stuck the key in the knob and burst inside. “Serge! Don’t do it!”
“Mmsdfgkdd …”
“I can’t understand you with that gun in your mouth.”
Serge removed it. “I said I’m busy.” He stuck the barrel back in.
“Serge!”
He pulled the gun out. “What!”
“I don’t care how bad it may seem. Talk to me. We can work through depression.”
“But I’m not depressed. Couldn’t be happier.” He swallowed the barrel again.
“I don’t understand. If you’re not depressed, why kill yourself?”
Serge rolled his eyes and removed the gun again. “Because we live by a code. Two things I hate most in life are bullies and hypocrites. And in my time I’ve taken care of many in both categories who violated that code. But then I got to thinking, hey, I’m a hypocrite, too. If I give myself a free pass for everything I’ve done, my life is all a big lie. But if I’m consistent and take care of myself as well, then I’m not a hypocrite anymore.”
“Serge, it’s not your fault.”
“Of course it’s my fault. I’m always preaching about people assuming responsibility for themselves, and now I’m following my own advice … But I have to hand it to you. Someone was after me. Me. How’d you know?”
“Didn’t until this morning. But then it snapped into place: way too huge a coincidence that someone could follow you step for step down the coast.”
“That’s another reason I need to do this. Up to now, I’ve always been confident that I’d never harm someone who didn’t deserve it. But then I found out I’ve been blacking out during the day, asking about myself, and sleepwalking at night, babbling in the mirror. For heaven’s sake, I nearly killed Coleman!”
“Let me get you help.”
“You’ve helped enough,” said Serge. “Made me face the truth about myself. You were right back during those hurricanes when you thought my personality was splitting. Just took a couple more years.” Serge looked down at the gun in his hand. “No, I can’t subject society to that kind of risk.”
“Listen to me,” said the agent. “Done a lot of study on your case. There’s all kinds of new breakthroughs for your condition.”
“Really?” Serge smiled and relaxed. “Thanks, Mahoney.”
“Glad you’re starting to think straight.”
“I am.”
Serge stuck the gun back in his mouth and pulled the trigger.
THE FLORIDA KEYS
Serge’s funeral was held at one of his favorite places on earth.
Mahoney had made the arrangements, faithful to the request on a sheet of paper Serge had given him at the Mai-Kai.
The sun was high and strong, humidity brutal. Mahoney stood in the concealment of a nest of banana trees on Big Pine Key, fedora in hand, wiping his forehead with a silk handkerchief. It had flamingos. To the east, a small bridge arced over Bogie Channel to No Name Key. In the middle of the span, Coleman stood with a plastic tube. He was joined by a collection of diehard regulars from the venerable No Name Pub, along with members of a Keys twelve-step cult deprogramming group who had become devoted disciples of Serge’s a few years earlier, all wearing identical T-shirts with their guru’s face over his motto: i follow nobody.